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Despite what many may believe, Hestia Aidios was not naive- quiet, yes, but not benign. Her soft nature often caused mortals to forget that she was the oldest of the Kronides, the goddess who had been there since the dawn of a new era and would remain for many more.
Eternity was a funny thing, almost incomprehensible even to an immortal. Time, she believed, could wear on anyone, and the first thing that would always be lost was memory.
Over the years, it seemed like the gods had forgotten not just her, but themselves.
The guardian of the hearth had watched empires fall and rise, the very nature of the Olympians shifting based on their beliefs. She saw how the lord of the ocean mellowed out as mortals learned how to navigate the treacherous seas, observed from the shadows when the twin archers took on the roles of the faded.
Many deities were able to hear the secrets of the world through their own domains, and Hestia Pontheinotáti was no exception. Whilst her eldest brother listened to the whispers the dead passed among one another, and the winged messenger found stories from the letters he delivered, the daughter of Rhea heard the tales that family passed to each other around her hearth.
She was there to wrap her presence around the youngest son of a struggling family finally managing to graduate, present as she silently mourned with the pair of young children that cried for their lost grandparents. Her gentle caress was felt by the fireplace during the bitter winter, in the sharp words of a mother defending her only daughter from harm.
Hestia Estiarchos listened, and when one pays attention to what the world has to say rather than shouting to be heard, it was easy to see the messages painted out in the tapestry of fate.
Just like the mortals said, those who could not remember and learn from the past were doomed to repeat the same mistakes.
By tying themselves to worship, the Olympians had either written their own doom or avoided it by a thread.
The human race wasn’t perfect, never would be. They sparked wars over things that seemed like everything at the moment but pointless in hindsight, able to change in ways the gods could only hope to. They loved and hated and perceived in a way that guided the very way her family grew and adapted, not just existing, but living.
Every time the Heart of the West moved, she could feel the shuffling within the pantheon as the ideals and beliefs of a new country settled within them.
In the ancient times, the king of the skies was firm and fair and powerful, yet as the culture moved on, so did he. Her youngest sibling became benevolent, then industrious, and finally, paranoid and reckless.
Like a cycle, their nature started out well enough with each new shift, before spiraling downwards when the heart was about to find a new home. No matter what, they would always forget.
Cycles seemed to be a bit of a curse in her family.
Hestia Polýolvos knew she wasn’t exempt to this either, though her changes were more subtle, rarely drastic. Family and home were a constant no matter which culture dominated, after all. So, she was forced to watch while the gods fell into the same pattern that had been repeated for countless centuries, a loop they were unable to escape.
Once again, they were falling. The formerly industrious and determined United States was becoming an oligarchy run by someone no better than a tyrant, and it was reflected in how her relatives had begun to act.
Ares’ cruelty and bloodlust, so far from the righteousness and determination he’d had, paired with Aphrodite’s frivolous affairs, no longer full of deep connections and passion.
Still. It was nothing new.
In fact, she’d been so used to it that she had almost missed it when the cracks started.
The first sign had been when a young boy with dark hair and sea green eyes glanced towards her spot by the fire, smiling softly. A few years later, another had done the same, going as far as to sit beside her and say hello.
Perseus Jackson and Nico di Angelo had sparked a flame that refused to be extinguished.
Yet it didn’t stop there. On the other side of the country, the Son of Jupiter rose through the ranks of the legion, bringing glory to the cohort that had been presumed cursed. The Daughter of Bellona broke free from the enchantments that were supposed to be eternal, forging her own path as a leader after only following others for so long.
She began to wonder… if those cycles could be broken, why not this one?
The fire grew, Hestia Vasíleia’s domains humming when she felt how her family grew closer, the gods claiming their children, the less known of the pantheon beginning to get the recognition they deserved. A little deeper down, she could feel the warmth of Vesta’s approval and joy.
Peace, though, wasn’t meant to last forever- hiding the truth did not erase it. The Greeks and Romans came to arms, and while the others fought the schism, she was helpless to intervene. Her own mind was kept together only by her own force of will and her domains, singing quietly to her in a crescendo as the changes grew.
The Daughter of Pluto escaped death, the Son of Poseidon retaining his memories when all the divine rules said they shouldn’t have. Hera’s Champion promised to bring glory to a goddess long forgotten, taking on a title she’d assumed to have died with time.
The flame roared into a wildfire, sparks dancing along the blazing wood and catching new branches.
On the summer solstice, Greek and Roman combined, the goddess stood at her hearth and spoke, her soft voice carrying through the throne room. They had been trapped for far too long, lost far too many, and she was done standing by and letting it happen.
Gold and fire ran through her veins, burning as bright as the heart of the new age that was dawning, her power shining brighter than the stars.
It was time for Hestia to break her own cycle.